


Red Solo Cups

by RavenclawRiddles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Unilock, johnlock au, johnlock oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 16:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12535600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawRiddles/pseuds/RavenclawRiddles
Summary: Sherlock discovers that he's not the only one pretending to be drunk at a college Halloween party when he and John both intervene in a drunk fight. But Sherlock isn't there for the vodka—he's there for nefarious grad student Jim Moriarty. Naturally, John involves himself... and Sherlock lets him.--Sherlock felt something inexplicable as their eyes met. It was as though someone had sent an illicit drug pulsing through his veins, and he very much suspected all of a sudden that John might have somehow unlocked Pandora’s box without even intending to.“Let’s go,” Sherlock said, and, blindly trusting, John followed.





	Red Solo Cups

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t been able to dedicate any time to update my other fics, but my friend told me the other day that she goes to parties and drinks water from a Solo cup and pretends to be drunk, and this one-shot popped into my head.
> 
> I'm terrible at titles. Please forgive me. This was titled "Johnlock drunk" in my Google Docs.

Given the choice, Sherlock Holmes would rather be anywhere but here. Loud, rowdy college Halloween parties were really not his scene. As the seconds ticked by, the antics got even crazier, the red Solo cups littered the floor until navigating around them became impossible, and Sherlock considered aborting the entire mission and spending the next 72 hours in the lab just to detox from the night he’d witnessed.

Through a combination of wallflowering and half-hearted acting attempts, Sherlock managed not to arouse too much suspicion throughout the night, sipping water from a Solo cup and pretending to be drunk whenever other wasted students approached him. The rest of the time was spent keeping a close eye on the reason he was submitting himself to this in the first place: Jim Moriarty, a civil engineering graduate student. Sherlock had been commissioned by the campus police to confirm Jim’s guilt in a recent local B&E.

Well, when he said commissioned.

It was nearing 2 am when a fight broke out. Drunken fights were nothing to be worried about, really, considering that the offending parties couldn’t pass a field sobriety test, let alone meet their target, but equally intoxicated young men trying to break up inebriated fisticuffs was still extremely inconvenient. And so it was that, as limbs began flying and people began scrambling for their phones to catch this on Snapchat, Sherlock abandoned his guise and intervened.

And almost slammed headfirst into another student, who’d appeared from the other side of the room and was clearly not at all drunk either. Except Sherlock had seen the man earlier, and was almost certain he’d been throwing back shots, well on his way to alcohol poisoning, all evening.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” the young man said firmly, seizing one of the culprits by the collar. He was short, about 5’6”, and sported what appeared to be a scruffily overgrown military regulation haircut. A quick once-over revealed that the student in question had served in the AMEDD, which would be why he looked older than the other attendees.

“You're sober?” Sherlock asked at the same time as the stranger said in mild surprise, “You're not drunk?”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. He glanced down at their feet. Was that a limp? Yes, it had to be—of _course,_ a psychosomatic limp would not be unprecedented in a veteran, and he would bet good money that the mystery student suffered PTSD. The bags under his eyes would suggest that he’d been enduring some sleepless nights, but the way he carried himself made obvious that it was neither due to partying nor schoolwork.

“Were you planning on helping me?” the ex-AMEDD officer snapped.

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said hurriedly.

Perhaps there _had_ been something in his drink; it was unlike him to be distracted, particularly on such an important investigation.

Between him and the young man, they managed to break apart the culprits, who ended up sagging against the couches while their slightly less drunk friends took photos.

“I’m John.”

Sherlock, who had been eyeing Jim through an open door to an adjacent room, started slightly. “Hm?” he asked.

The young man rolled his eyes and repeated, “I’m John. And you are...?”

Jim was leaning in and talking to an intoxicated girl in the corner. As Sherlock watched, he reached out and rested a hand on her knee. His eyes narrowed. Whatever the police seemed to delude themselves into thinking, this was _not_ just a B &E. Jim’s offenses were far more intricate and diverse.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Was John still talking? “So why are you pretending to be drunk?”

“On a case,” Sherlock said shortly. “Pardon me.”

He brushed past John to get a better vantage point. A flicker of hurt crossed the man’s face. Sherlock felt a stab of something like guilt; he knew he was terrible at social cues, and it was unlike him to care. However, John seemed like a decent man, and those were in short supply, even within the demographic of non-binge drinkers at college.

Sherlock blinked, forcing himself to refocus, and returned, “Why are you sober?”

“My sister’s an alcoholic. It runs in the family. I don't touch the stuff,” John explained.

Jim didn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that he was only after the young woman’s money and the obscenely expensive Tiffany’s bracelet around her wrist. Not only was the grad student obviously homosexual (which was not to say he wouldn’t still take advantage of innocent women), but his advances were more of the “sleight of hand” variety than the “you are about to become a campus statistic” one.

Satisfied for the time being—Jim was a cautious and calculating type of criminal whose genius was almost to be admired, and he would never pounce without a 100% guarantee of success—Sherlock turned back to John. “Why are you here?”

John jerked his head at a crumpled up figure on the floor. “Mike Stamford and Sarah Sawyer. That's Mike. Sarah’s off somewhere hooking up with someone. I think.” He frowned. “I hope. I should probably check on her.”

Sherlock curled his lip in distaste as he surveyed Mike’s prone figure. “Pleasant.”

John gave a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “Not really.”

Sherlock made some sort of noise of assent and checked on Jim again. The grad student was clearly flirting with the girl, though his attempts were poor at best and, were she remotely sober, she would have no doubt clued into his intents immediately.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. Taking advantage of people was abhorrent. “Pick on people your own size,” his friend Irene used to snap at those sorts of scumbags in high school. If Sherlock were to ever enter the world of crime, _he_ would never stoop to such a level. Crime was nothing more than a game between masterminds, and it stood to reason that it would only ever be honorable with a worthy and evenly matched opponent.

John keenly followed Sherlock’s gaze now, and briefly rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder so he could push past and catch a glimpse. Sherlock flinched and caught himself staring a second too long at John.

What on earth could someone have put in his water?

“When you say you’re on a case...” John said slowly. He turned and looked sharply at Sherlock. “That’s Jim Moriarty, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. He almost enjoyed watching comprehension dawn on John’s face, followed by an expression that Sherlock, through years of detached observation, recognized to be something like compassion mingled with horror. It would seem that his assessment of John’s moral caliber was correct.

“What’s he doing to her?” John asked through gritted teeth. He was glowering in Jim’s direction.

Sherlock sighed. “It would do to be a bit more subtle,” he said, and steered John to the side slightly.

“That’s my sister’s ex. Clara,” John said after a pause.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Ah.” Evidently this made the case more interesting. Interesting? No, _personal_ was more appropriate. Probably. For John, at least. Sherlock never much cared for dysfunctional relationships, or relationships in general. Not really his area.

“We should step in,” John said urgently.

“Not yet. I need evidence,” Sherlock insisted.

This was the trouble with such pedestrian members of society, wasn’t it. The impulsivity. Their sentiment impeded every single investigation until Sherlock was ready to tear his hair out. The _earful_ he’d received from Detective Lestrade and nosy Officer Donovan when he allowed a child to be struck by a bus purely so he could catch a criminal red-handed had been truly splendid and, in his opinion, entirely uncalled for. After all, Sherlock wasn’t a _barbarian:_ he had naturally performed necessary brief physics calculations beforehand to determine the likely degree of injury, and his statistical predictions of the child’s recovery time were unsurprisingly correct down to the hour.

In the other room, Jim swooped in, interrupting Sherlock’s musings. John, who had been watching Sherlock quizzically, immediately and almost instinctively tensed. As Jim smoothly pocketed the bracelet and leaned forward to slide the girl’s credit card from the pouch on the back of her phone, the glint of a knife in his waistband prompted a sharp intake of breath from John.

He and Sherlock looked at one another briefly. Sherlock felt something inexplicable as their eyes met, something that couldn’t possibly have come from alcohol. It was as though someone had sent an illicit drug pulsing through his veins, and he very much suspected all of a sudden that John might have somehow unlocked Pandora’s box without even intending to.

There was no time for introspection now, because they had to move fast.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock said, and, blindly trusting, John followed.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I tempted to write a sequel? Yes. Do I have enough time? Probably not. If you want one, drop a comment and I'll bury it in my to-do list.


End file.
